SEC JNn ooPV, 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. __. Copyright No. 

Shelf.:^.i$^vr#<j11 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 




MARSHAL S. CORNWELIv. 



WHEAT . . . 
AND CHAFF 



VERSKS, LETTERS, AND EXTRACTS 
FROM THE WRITINGS 
. . OF . . • 

M. S. CORNWELIv. 






nn 



3S124 



Copyright. 1899, 

By CORNWELL Brotherj 

Romney, W Va. 



ir^fOCU^'U... xwU...*Uw.. 







To 

The Memory of 
The Author. 



^O^d^ 



^M ^^ivT ]p»'v»^ Uwvc_ ^^t^ 'Vtvt., *i^k^[M>c**l^ 



PREFACE. 

In this age, when so many new books are annually 
given to the public, and so many literary men have won 
deserved distinction, it would seem almost useless to in- 
vite the attention of the reader, unless your works are of 
extraordinary merit No such claim is intended for this 
publication. On the contrary, we know that many of 
the poems herein contained were hurriedly thrown off in 
an idle hour, and published by the author in his own or 
his brother's paper, and that he intended revising them, 
but was prevented from doing so by rapidly failing health, 
which finally culminated in his death— May 26th, 1898 — 
in the 27th year of his age 

The many requests for copies of certain poems and 
letters of the deceased, and the many suggestions that 
have come to us urging a compilation of the same, fur- 
nishes the only apology that is given for this undertak- 
ing, though it be a labor of love on the part of the pub- 
lishers. 

To those sufficiently interested to peruse this volume, 



a word as to the history of the author will not be out of 
place. 

Marshall vS. Cornwell was born October i8th. 1871, 
in Hampshire County, West Virginia. He was raised 
on a farm, where he labored hard until grown. He never 
attended college a day in his life, though few men of his 
age were better informed. He was a great reader and had 
a remarkable memory. His education came from this, 
and his clo-se observance of human nature. 

After leaving the farm he engaged in publishing a 
County newspaper at Petersburg, and later at Elkins, 
West Virginia. The city had no attraction for him. His 
thoughts were wrapped up in the country, and in the 
closing hours of his life his memory revested to the old 
home and farm. 

Many of the poems and letters which are here pub- 
lished, were written when he was wandering, face to face 
with death, on the eastern coast of Florida or on the 
banks of the Rio Grand. Hence the .serious and pathetic 
strain which pervades most of them, though occasion- 
ally come flashes of wit and humor, characteristic of his 
cheerful life. 

Finally the message came from far off El Paso, that 
he "had giv<?n up the battle and was coming home to 
die ". His sick room was never a chapel of gloom, and 
he was never so happy as when friends surrounded him 
and little children played by his side. 

His last hour was a perfect song of rejoicing. One 
by one he called the members of his family to his .side, 
and spoke to them words of counsel and wisdom. Fin- 
ally he pressed down his eyelids with his own fingers. 



folded his arms upon his breast, and the sweet smile that 
settled over his face told us he had found that perfect 
peace which he had seen in his " Dream of Rest." 

His remains were laid to rest in the " Indian Mound 
Cemetery ", at Romney, just as the sun set behind the 
western hills, amid one of the largest assemblages of peo- 
ple we ever saw there upon a similar occasion. 

As the deceased believed he had a mission in the 
world, and had completed it, this little book, the product 
of his pen, is given the public, hoping that some one 
who reads it will be bettered thereby. 

W. B. CORNWELL, 
JNO. J. CORNWELL. 



" A little book of happy dreams, 

The product of an idle day — 
Stray flashes of the light that streams 

Across my lone and barren way. 

"I would not change mine humble lot 

To reign a king through countless years. 

For I, though unknown and forgot, 

Have heard the music ot the spheres." 



The verses above were found upon the fly leaf of 
the little scrap-book carried by the Author in his 
lone ramblings through the pine w.)ods of Florida, 
and along the banks of the Rio Grande, in his search 
for the health he found no more. 



A DREAM OF REST. 

SAT in the dusk of the dying day, 
By the foot of the green-clad height, 

And watched the glow of the sun's last ray, 
Engulfed by the shades of night ; — 

Saw the steal o'er the valley wide, 

And the river's darkening stream ; 
While the mountain's crown, and its wooded side, 

Grew faint in the fading gleam. 

And over my soul, as the shadows fell, 

Softly stole a dream of rest. 
And it seemed, in my dream, that all was well, 

And that sorr. w and toil were blest. 

And I prayed, oh father, when conieth the night, 

At the end of my weary day, 
May I wait, as calm as the wood-crowned height, 

In the glow of the sun's last ray. 

May the peace that falls on nature's breast, 

When the day dies out of the sky, 
Fill my soul at last, with joy and rest. 

When my last hour draweth nigh. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



SOME DAY. 

The following poem was read at the grave of the deceased by 
Rev. Wa.shburn. 

"^ OME day, through the mists of the earthly iii^ht, 
-) We shall catch the gleam of the harbor light, 
That shines forever on the far off shore, 
Where dwell the loved who have gone before ; 
We shall anchor safe from our stormy way, 
In that haven of rest, some day, some day. 

Some day our sorrows will all be o'er, 

And we'll rest from trouble forevermore ; 

When over the river's rolling tide. 

We shall " strike glad hands " on the other side ; 

It the cit}' celestial, at last, we may 

Rest in peace, some day, some day. 

Some day will close these weary eyes. 
That shall look no more on the earthly skies, 
And over the heart, that has ceased to beat, 
Kind hands will place fresh flowers sweet ; 
But my soul shall hear the celestial lay. 
Sweet paens of praise, some day. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 15 



THE RIVER OF DREAMS. 

FROM itssource in the Valley of Infancy, 
Until lost in the mists of eternity, 

Flows the mystical River of Dreams ; 
And who hath been borne on the river's tide. 
Where the shadowy barques of the dreamers ride, 
Hath reveled in fairy scenes. 

There are magical isles through which we glide. 
As over the silvery waves we ride 

Where our tears are remembered no more ; 
. Only happiness dwells where we float along, 
And the sound of the waves is a slumber-song, 

As they break on the dreani-river's shore. 

There's a harbor safe, where the dream -barques stay 
Awhile, as they glide on their noiseless way ; — 

Tis the haven of long ago ; 
And there by the beauteous river's shore, 
The friends we have loved who have gone before 

Are waiting for us I know. 

Where the sunny hair, and the smiling face, 
And all the heaven of childish grace 

Which was ours in bygone years ; 
Comes back to us there 
In that harVjor, fair, 

To banish our doubts, and fears. 



16 WHEAT AND CHAFF 



So ever the white barques glide along 

To the rhythmical beat of the slumber song 

On the tide of the River of Dreams ; — 
From its scource in the vale of infancy 
'Til lost in the mists of eternity 

A river of rest it seems. 

# ^ # 
THE OLD SPANISH MISSION. 

[The old Spanish Mission at New Smyrna. Florida, 
is one of the oldest landmarks on this continent. The 
sight is one of ttie most beautiful that could be imag- 
ined in the heart of the forest, a few miles from the 
ocean.] 

I GAZED on a ruin old and gray 
In the shadowy depths of the forest way 
Afar from the hatints of busy life, 
And the rush of the mad world's ceaseless strife. 

Only the song birds nesting there, 
Broke the dreamy calm of the quiet air, 
Or the mighty ocean's ceaseless roar, 
As it breaks in foam on the tropic shore. 

But where are they, those men who came 
From the vine-clad hills of stinny Spain? 
They rest for aye in the quiet grave, 
Where the green palmettos gently wave. 

As I gazed I seemed to see in a dream, 
Once more the alter tapers gleam, 
And 'neath the shade of the forest green 
I seemed to hear the vesper hymn. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



^nd the vesper chime of the mission bells, 
Once more on the breeze mellifluous swells, 
The black robed priests from the hills of Spain 
Have come from the past to their own again. 

Alas ! twas only a fleeting dream. 
And the fading glow of the taper's gleam 
Was only a glow worm's flickering light, 
Revealed by the coming of tropic night. 

The vesper song that rose and fell 
On the balmy air, and the vesper bell. 
Was only the wind from the tropic seas 
Singing .softly through the tall green trees. 

Yet what is lite but a fleeting dream ? 

No matter how fair the morn may seem, 

Soon joy is only a memory dim 

Like the sound of that ghostly vesper hymn. 

-^ m ^ 

SUCCESS. 

wT?i^vi,t'inta^ff"'"j' ^°"^ge paper published at the University of 
West Virginia, ofTered a sum of money as a prize for the best orLi 
nal poem. The following received the award, having been selectld 

T^ WO ships sail over the harbor bar, 
*- With the flush of the morning breeze, 
And both are bound for a haven, far 
O'er the shimmering summer seas. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



With sails all set, fair wind and tide, 

They steer for the open main ; 
But little they reck of the billows wide, 

E'er they anchor safe again. 

There is one, perchance, e'er the summer is done. 

That reaches the port afar, 
She hears the sound of the welcoming gun 

As she crosses the harbor bar. 

The haven she reaches, Success, 'tis said 

Is the end of a perilous trip, 
Perchance e'en the bravest and best are dead. 

Who sailed in the fortunate ship. 

The other bereft of shroud and sail. 

At the mercy of wind and tide, 
Is swept by the might of the pitile.ss gale, 

'Neath the billows dark and wide. 

But 'tis only the one in the harbor there 
That receiveth the meed of praise ; 

The other sailed when the morn was fair, 
And was lost in the stormy ways. 

And so to men who have won renown 

In the weary battle of life, 
There cometh at last the victor's crown. 

Not to him who fell in the strife. 

For the world recks not of those who fail, 

Nor cares what their trials are. 
Only praises the ship that with swelling sail, 

Comes in o'er the harbor bar. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



AN IN VOCA TION. 

GIVE nie, oh Lord of life, I pray 
A little love lest I should stray. 
'Tis this I ask, and this alway,} 
Unto the end of life's'^brief da}'. 

I crave no storm of passion's flood, 
That raadly stirs the human blood, 
Only the love of friend for friend — 
And be it faithful to the end. 

For human hearts have human needs ; 
And naught of piety or creeds, 
Of peace can give to souls forlorn 
That stem alone life's battle storm. 

I ask not wisdom — the divine ; 
For death shall make this soul of mine 
To heights and depths of knowledge vast. 
When outworn dreams of earth are past, 

A'little love alone I crave. 
To light my pathway to the grave — 
The hand of friendship, tried and strong. 
To steer ni}' shattered barque along. 

Until at last the sail is furled. 
In the wide bay where, tempest hurled, 
Storm-riven wrecks from time'sjrough sea 
Ride safe through all eternity !^ 



20 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



H 



SABBA TH BELLS. 
OW sweet is the melody soft and entrancing, 

That breaks on our senses each bright sabbath morn, 
As o'er the green valleys the sunbeams are glancing, 
To gladden the heart and the world to adorn. 

Like the joyous hosannas, the shepherds heard sounding. 
When seraphs and cherubims joined in the song ; 

Of mercy, and peace, and of good will abounding. 
The chorus resounding o'er earth loud and long, 

Are the gentle, loved tones of the Sabbath bells calling, 
The weary from toils of the days that are past, 

As over the hearts of mankind they are falling, 
A message of love and of life that shall last. 

And when their solt music our burdens shall lighten, 
In city or country where e'er we may roam. 

Sweet dreams of the past the present shall lighten. 
And memories cling round the spot we call home. 

The murmuring stream and the trees that wave o'er it, 
The village that sleeps at the foot of the hill, 

The meadows spread out like a green rug before it, 
The willows that waved o'er the moss covered mill. 

'We have heard the bells ring when the spring-time was fairest; 
When budding leaves first met the kiss of the sun. 
And again when the glories of Autumn were rarest. 
And falling leaves warned us that summer was done. 

We have heard richest chimes calling myriads of people, 
To worship in temples both stately and grand. 

But one note from the bell in that humble church steeple, 
Were sweeter by far to the world wearied man. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



THE PASSING OF THORWALD, 

' N Norway where the midnight sun 
Gleams on Ras Vatna hoar}^ 
Heroic deeds by sea kings done, 
Are told in song and story. 

Stern as the Winter's icy bands, 
Yet brave and gentle hearted. 

The Vikings bold who ruled the lands 
In da3's that have departed. 

Vallhallah's halls ne'er opened wide 
To him who shrank from duty ; 

But to the warrior true and tried 
They shone in all their beauty. 

Jarl Thorwald sat within his hall. 

His liegemen all assembled, 
And when he spake each bounden thrall 

Obeisance made, and trembled. 

Spake he, '' the good ship Valdemir 

Rides on the open Fiord, 
And I a dotard linger here, 

No more your warrior lord.'' 

Spake he, " 1 have braved the fiercest gale 
That e'er the North sea knew, 

But the Valdemir neer slackened sail 
For storm that ever blew.'' 



22 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 

" But age has chilled the warm life blood 
That courses through each vein. 

The music of the restless flood, 
I ne'er shall hear again."' 

" Already Woden's beckoning hand 
O'er the waves is calling me. 

He is calling me to the mystic strand, 
To Vallhallah o'er the sea."' 

" Now bear me down to the Valdemir, 
For my spirit is ebbing fast. 

And give me the "Viking's fiery bier. 
P'or my earthly life is past " 

Alone on the deck of the ocean steed 
They laid the sea king bold, 

And the flames by the liegemen freed 
Crept up through the silent hold. 

Each mast and spar like a gleaming brand 
Shone out 'gainst the winter sky, 

And the Valdemir Vjore out from land 
And the red flames leaped on high. 

And as the wreck of the burning barque 
Drifted out on the restless sea, 

The soul of Thorwald sped in the dark 
To "Vallhallah o'er the sea. 



WHEAT AND CHAPF 28 



ONL Y A TRAMP. 

(An unknown man, who was injured oti the W. Va. C & P Ry , 
said, as his life pa>sed away ; "I am only a tramp, no friends, no 
home Don't writ'' or telegraph to anyVjody. but bury me in the 
potter's field.'') 



o 



NLY a tramp, no friends, no home. 

Drifting oui in the dark alone. 

Only a wreck on the unknown tide, 
Borne away to the unknown side. 

Who shall say of the dead man there, 
What was the weary load of care 
That shut him out from the joys of life. 
From a happy home and a loving wife. 

A lonely grave on the mountain side, 
In the heart of the wilderness, waste and wide, 
Is all that's claimed by the lifeless clod, 
Fashioned fair in the image of God. 

Perchance if these dumb lips could tell. 
The story of sorrow known full well. 
By the sorrowing poor on life's highway. 
We'd pity this wanderer, dead to-day. 

A story, perchance, of a maply man, 
In whose veins the blood of a freeman ran, 
Of half-paid labor, of want and strife. 
And this, the end of a ruined life. 

Condemn him not, lest you, some da}-. 
Should reach the end in the self-same way — 
Lest you should live to be old and poor, 
And ask for a crust at the stranger's door. 



'2i WHEAT AND CHAFF 



FROM THE VALLEY. 

'HE day still gleams on the brow of the height, 
When 'tis dark in the valley below; 

And the first pale beams of the dawning light 
Kiss the billows of frozen snow. 

The climber ever turneth his face, 

Toward the glittering goal above. 
And left behind in the upward race. 

Lie 3'outh, and joy, and love. 

It is cold on the brow of the height ; 

It is warm in the valley below, 
But ambition lures, like a mirage bright 

With a steady pitiless glow. 

The climber, at eve, lies cold and stark, 
On the brea.st of the frozen snow ; 

But joy still dwells in the love-warm dark, 
Of the vale of content, below. 



WHEAT AND CHAFK. 25 



THE SEA SHORE. 

ING a song of Jersey shores, 

White sand dunes and breakers, 

Mot board-walks and white hotels, 
Crowds of merry makers. 



s 



Prices higher than the moon. 
Steak as tough as leather, 

Summer girls in summer garb, 
Sweltering August weather. 

Love talks in the gloaming, 

By the lapping tide, 
Big old bull mosquito 

Boring through your hide. 

Battling with the ocean. 

Dipping in the foam. 
Wondering what your creditors 

Will sa}' when you get home. 

Sing a song of Summer 

By the sounding sea ; 
Go there if you want to, 

But — please excuse me. 



26 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



H 



A CHRISTMAS TOAST. 

ERK'vS to the good old Christmas times, 

\Ve knew so long ago, 
When merry sleigh-bells jingled. 

O'er the hills of frozen snow. 



To our childish joys and sorrows, 

That are buried in the past, 
And to the hopes of later years — 

Bright dreams that would not last. 

To our early loves and losses, 
Our struggles, hopes, and fears, 

And to the path our feet shall tread, 
Through all the coming years. 

To the sacred memory of old friends, 
Whose warm hand clasp we knew, 

In the morning of our life time, 

When we deemed all friendship true. 

But better still, to those we've loved, 
Through all the changing years, — 

Who have shared our joys and sorrows, 
Our laughter and our tears. 

A pleasant voyage may theirs^be, 
Adown time's troubled stream, 

'Till through the darkening evening mists, 
The harbor lights shalCgleam. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF 



o 



WHERE THE RAIN DROPS FELL. 

VER all the pastures, I'urnt and brown, 
O'er the dusty streets of the busy town, 
Swiftl}', but gently and silently came, 
The pattering drops of the welcome rain, 
And their joy at the shower, the songsters tell. 
To the listening world, where the rain drops fell. 

'Mid the leafy isles of the forests dark, 

In the flower-lined ways of the city park. 

The trees were greener, the flowers more fair. 

When the shower came and freshened the air. 

And nature rejoiced that all was well, 

And the earth smiled anew where the rain drops fell. 

So our hearts may be seared, and burnt, and brown. 

Like the plants that grow in the heat of the town. 

But our lives shall be brightened, our sorrows made light, 

As the roseate morning shall fo Mow the nighl. 

When we hear the sweet voice of God\s mercies that call, 

As over our pathway his blessings shall fall. 



28 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



IN MEMORY OF DR. SAMUEL F. SMITH. 

Author of our National Hymn. 
ND thou art gone, whose sweetest song. 



A 



Was sung at freedom's holy shrine. 
Thou heardst the angel's loving call, 
Across the distant hills of time. 

Thy weary form is lowly laid, 

To moulder in the silent tomb. 
And o'er th}^ resting place is spread. 

Death's sullen, sombre, starless gloom. 

Yet all the sons of free-born sires. 

Who love the land where freedom reigns. 

From wild New England's rock-bound coast, 
To California's sunny plains, 

Will write thy epitaph upon 

The hearts of children yet to be, 

And teach their prattling tongues to lisp, 
" My country, 'tis of thee ". 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



M 



A SUMMER SYMPHONY. 

Y boauie brown lass, with laughing eye, 

And footsteps like the fawn, 
Your fleeting smile, as ye pass by. 

Is sweet as summer's dawn. 

The wild bee clings. 

With folded wings. 
To the bloom of the swaying clover. 

And carmine tips 

Of coral lips, 
Sair tempt a June-time lover. 

My bonnie brown lass, of graceful mien, 
Like naiad or wood nymph seeming, 

If ye will or nay, I name ye queen. 
Of all my day-time dreaming. 

The skylark's trill. 

By woodland rill. 
Or call of the mating plover, 

Is not more sweet, 

To ears they greet. 
Than your laughter bubbling over. 

My bonnie wild lass, with cheeks as brown, 

As the maples of September, 
Tho" I dread the cloud of your haughty frown, 

I bid vou ave remember,— 



30 WHEAT AND CHAFF 



The wild bee clings, 

With folded wit:gs, 
To the bloom of the swaying clover, 

And carmine tips, 

Of coral lips, 
Sair tempt a June-time lover. 

# ^ # 

A FRAGMENi: 

rHKRK'S a pall of gloom o'er the winter sky. 
The lamps have gone out in the darkness on high, 
The old year is dying, 
The wild winds are sighing, 
And the past with its pleasures, its smiles, and its tears, 
Gives way to the future, its hopes and its fears. 

A friend to some, has the old year been. 
And a pitiless foe to others, I ween, 

But some will reap, 

While others must weep. 
For the tide of time, with its ceaseless flow. 
Waits not for mortals here below. 

Here's a sigh for the old 3'ear, soon to be o'er. 
And a smile for the new one that is now before ; 

For 'tis ever with hope. 

That we blindly grope. 
In the darkest depths of the gloomy night. 
That forever obscures the future's light. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



IN MEMORY OF EUGENE FIELD. 



A 



LL rusted the harp that the minstrel played, 
E'er he wandered from earth afar, 

Down the shining path, by the angel's made. 
To the beautiful gates ajar. 

Yet the touching stories of childish lore, 

And the minstrel's tender song, 
Will echo back from that far offshore, 

With a cadence full and strong. 

And thousands of children who loved his name. 
For the sake of the Little Boy Blue, 

Will raise a shaft to the poet's fame. 
From the depth of their love so true. 

"Twere better far than a nation's praise, 

This tribute of childish love, 
To the poet gone from our earthly gaze. 

To the land of light above. 

# ^^ '# 



THE BL UE AND THE GRA Y. 

At a join^. celebration of Washitrtjton's Birthday, at Elkiiis, by 
the G A. R Post and a Camp of Confederate Veterans Mr. M. S. 
Cornweil, of the "Inter Mountain ", read the following beautiful 
original poem : —Wheeling Register. 

"^HE death dealing passions that burned fierce and bright, 
In the heart of the nation, when grim visaged war. 
Like the sable-hued folds of the mantle of night, 
Enveloped the land, its beauty to mar, 



32 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



Have gone like the dreams of the years that have vanished, 
Like the dewdrops that melt at the kiss of the sun, 

When love took the place of the demon you banished, 
And the Hlue and the Gray stand united as one. 

From the storm-beaten shores of the far Northern Ocean ; 

To where the palms wave by the Mexican Sea. 
The spirit of discord, of civil commotion. 

Like a spectre, arose, and bid liberty flee. 

Then the sons of the Southland — no braver eer Vmttled — 
They offered their lives for a cause they deemed right, 

When the war dogs were loosed and the musketry rattled, 
Virginia was found in the van of the fight. 

Aye, brave, too, were those, from each Northern valley. 
Who fought for Old Glory, its stripes and its stars. 

When the bugle blast echoed the sound of the rally. 
They sprang to the fray like true sons of Mars. 

In the heart of a Nalion, two words are enshrined, 
Whose meaning shall last till the end of the day. 

And around them the tendrils of memory are twined, 
They are blazoned in glory the Blue and the Grav. 

Their deeds shall yet live through the iar future ages ; 

These soldiers who met on the wide battle plain, 
And the pen of the poet, or wisdom of sages. 

Can add not one jot to the sheen of their fame. 

We love the traditions the Southland hath cherished. 
Of brave meti who fell in the thick of the fray. 

We remember with pride, now that passion has perished, 
Americans all, were the Blue and the Grav. 



WHEAT AND CHAF'F. 



WHEN THE LEAVES BEGIN TO FALL. 

THRRE'vS a tin^e of melancholy, in the sunlig^ht and the 
breeze, 
And the spirit of desolation, seems to brood amon^ the 

trees ; 
When the mellow mists of autnmn softly hover over all. 
When the summer has departed, and the leaves begin to fall. 

Gone, the pleasant days of spring-time, and the burning 

summer's heat ; 
Gone, the blue-bird and the swallow, from their leafv, cool 

retreat. 
And we feel a note of sadness, in the robin's plaintive call, 
When the summer days have ended, and the leaves begin 

to fall. ■ ' 

When the autumn of our life-time, with its weight of years 

shall come, 
And the spring-time hopes and longings, and the summer" s 

fight, be done. 
Shall our hearts be filled with sorrow, at the winter's icy 

pall? 
Or with glad hope of the morrow, when the leaves begin to 

fall? 



34 . WHKAT AND CHAPF. 

SONG OF 7 HE SEA. 

IT^OVE the song of the sea, — 
The pitiless wintry sea, 
As it breaks with a roar, 
On the Ice-bound shore, 
For its son<^ is wild and free. 

It sings of power, 

In the midnight hour. 

Or the dusk of the winter days ; 
And in angry breath, 
It sings of death. 

In the depth of its stormy ways. 

But better I love the sea, 
The magical, tropical sea. 
Where the sun gleams warm. 
In the track of the storm. 
For it softly sings to me. 

It sings of love, 
And the blue above, 

Bends down to the blue of the w 
Its soothing tone, 
Is a song of home. 

By shores its waters lave. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



N 



DECEMBER. 

T O more the mellow sunlight falls, 
O'er valley, hill, and town, 
And the phantom shapes of the autumn mists. 
Give way to the winter's frown. 

December's winds are chill and drear. 

As a blast from the icy North, 
When the storm ,s<od stretches his hand afar, 

And sends his leijions forth. 

The scurry injj^ clouds sweep over the sk}-. 

Like waves in fury tossed. 
And the moan of the night-wind sorrowful seem> 

Like the knell of a spirit lost. 

A mournful dirge the night-wind sings, 

A dirge for the dying year ; 
And the hearts of men, as they hear its sound, 

Are filled with a nameless fear. 

For as the spring and the simimer time. 

Give way to the winter's bla.st, 
vSo the jov of youth, and our manhood's prime. 

Give way to old age at last. 

And like the wnld December .storms, 
That envelop the earth in their gloom ; 

The shadow of death our souls shall wrap, 
In the starless night of the tomb. 



WHKAT AND CHAFK 



F 



RHYME OF THE SEASONS. 

I" HE spring-time hath hope for all living ; 
Of gladness a plenteous store ; 
And the summer hath sweets for the giving ; 
A measure of joy running oer. 

E'en the winter's rude breath shall but find us, 
Enthralled by the home's blissful bands ; 

And the gleam of the white frost around us ; 
There is wealth in the wide autumn lands. 

There's no change in our lives but for reason ; 

■Whether winter, or spring-time, or fall ; 
The bountiful Lord of the season, 

Prepareth his blessings for all. 

# # ^ 

TWO TOILERS. 

AR down 'neath the depths of the Cornish soil, 

Are men, whose sinews are hardened by toil, — 

Patient, enduring yet brave and strong, 

These men who toil through the dark hours long, 

While far above them the wild waves roar, 

As they break in foam on the rocky shore. 

Yet their story is told in prose and, rhyme, 

And the world has heard of their patience sublime, 

P'or the ore that is mined by their muscle and brawn, 

Finds its way to each land that the sun shines on. 



WHEAT AND CHAFP. 



There are men who toil through the day and the night, 
Bravely battling for home rind right,- 
Their weapon, the pen. more strong than the sword, 
For the fate of a nation may hang on a word. 
Yet the world recks not of their deeds sublime. 
And their names are not carved on the tablets of time. 
For oft times they're humble, and lowly, and poor. 
And their struggle is fierce, to keep want from the 

door, 
And men scarce believe that a hero's form. 
Can be wrapped in a coat that is ragged and torn. 

So, here's just a line, of praise to these men — 

Brave, patient, and noble, these knights of the pen, 

While others are resting, both body and brain, 

From the labor of plotting and scheming for gain, 

The journalist to^ls, with a tireless hand, 

To gather the news from every land. 

But there's one consolation, and to all its more dear, 

Than gold, or words of praise and cheer. 

'Tis only this : to have faced each part, 

With steady purpose, and fearless heart. 

Is better far, when life's sun goes down, 

Thau to reign a king, with scepter and crown. 



WHEAT AND CHAF'F'. 



H 



IMMORTALITY. 

AvST ihou, oh, brother, hope of life, 
Beyond these ways of storm and strife? 
Dost dream of rest beyond the sun. 
In beauteous lands, when life is done? 
And does that hope thy sad heart cheer, 
When sorrows dark pursue thee here? 

Answer the Norseman, stronj;- and brave, 
In days of old who dared the wave. 
Whose ocean steed, the four winds bore. 
To man\- a far-off, fruitful shore ; 
Owning no law but sword aiul fire. 
His faithful ship his funeral pyre. 

"Master of Life, the mighty Thor, 
Ruler of heaven and Crod of war ; 
He, who through the wintry night. 
Kindles the gleam of the northern light ; 
(ruards His children with jealous care. 
And giveth heed to the Norseman's ])rayer. 

'* When over the sea shall come, at last. 
The weird death-call on the midnight blast, 
Who would strengthen the slender thread. 
Between the living and the dead ? 
For shall not he who bravely died, 
On the wings of the wind to Valhal ride? " 



WHE^AT AND CHAFF 39 



Answer, ye of the sun-kissed lands, 
Where the riv-ers flow over golden sands ; 
Where love and peace first found a home ; 
Answer, ye spirits of Greece and Rome : 
Had ye hope of immortal life. 
Beyond these ways of storm and strife ? 

' Behold, where father Ti1)er"s stream, 
Reflects the sun's departing- y,ieam, 
A hundred priests and myriad choirs. 
Surround the holy altar fires ; 
A hundred temples, proudh' raised, 
Proclaim the gods the Romans praised. 

Or, when this grey, old world was young. 
In days of which the bards have sung. 
When art and music ruled the whil^. 
O'er Greece, and Delo's lovely isle. 
The Grecians praised the god of love. 
Or bent the knee to mighty Jove.'" 

Ever hath heart of man been bowed, 
The humble poor, the great and proud, 
To unseen hands that guard his way, 
From childhood's hour to close of day. 
All bear their cross of doubt and pain. 
By hope of an innnortal gain. 

The Buddhist claims Nirvana, rest ; 

The forest warrior scans the west, 

And sings his death-song e'er his flight, 



40 WHEAT AND CHAPK. 



Beyond the farther ocean bright. 
1 he Aztec owns the bright sun-god, 
And treads where Montezuma trod. 

Thus hath the Christian hope been strong. 
In hntnati hearts through ages long. 
Let scoffers claim their souls.are free. 
Or prate of grim philosoph}- ; 
Yet still we dream of hope and life, 
Beyond these ways of storm and strife. 



DIALECT AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE SOCKS THE GOLFERS WEAR. 

' 'VE hunted alligators where the •' Southland rivers flow," 
- And chased the bounding catamount across the frozen snow, 
I've followed all the out-door sports on land and on the sea. 
But I never wore the kind of socks that come above the knee. 

When a fellow stuffs his pantaloons within his checkered hose, 

And sets a little monkey cap above his bloomin' nose, 

I always look him over, and, somehow, I never fail, 

To think, there goes a sand hill crane, with nary sign of tail. 

I may ride a streak of lightning, or fight a grizzly bear, 
Or sail, with some fool aeronaut, the circumambient air ; 
I may get drunk, and paint the town, to drive away dull care. 
But heaven smite me, if I don the socks those golfers wear. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



H 



FM JUSl A LAZY FELLER. 

T 'M just a lazy feller, 
1 With no special 'sense fer livin', 
Nor half deservin' any gifts 
The Lord is always givin". 

But I can't help feelin' happy, 

'Bout this time in the Spring, 
When the cherry trees are bloomin' 

An' I hear the robin's sing. 

There ain't no city big enough. 

To hold nie now, at all. 
Since the cherry trees are bloomin', 

An' I hear the robin's call. 

For the Master, in His goodness. 

Made the country fair an' free, 
The V)irds an' flowers an' buddin' trees, 

Fer lazy chaps like me. 

# # # 

SFMMER LN FHE SOUFH. 

I, niistah 'coon, in de sycomo' tree, 

Yo' think yo' done hid, but ye cay n't fool me, 

De ol' dog a trailin', wid his nose to de grouu'. 

An' yo" cay n't lose yo' track frum dat ol' speckled houn'. 

De blackberry ripenin', an' de mellon grovvin' biggah, 
But de Lawd made the possum an' de 'coon fer de niggali, 
Summer in de South, an' de moon shinin' bright, 
Gwine to see my true love dis hyar blessed night. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



Hi. niistah 'coon, in de syconio' tree, 
Yo' bettah come down, fer 3^0' cayn't fool me. 
De ol' dog a barkin', an' de moon shinin' bright, 
Gwine to see my true lov^e dis hyar blessed night. 



-^ # 



THE GOOD LORD LOJ'ES 7 HE FARMER. 

SOME folks they think creation is all a goin' wrong ; 
Say we'll have a revolution, an' that it wont be long. 
They say as how the workin' man is poor as poor can be ; 
But the good Lord loves the farmer, an' that's enough fur me. 

I don't know much 'bout politics, the tariff nor free trade, 
But if we've rain and sunshine, here's one 'ats not afraid 
Of them there grindin' plutocrats in this country of the free. 
For the good Lord loves the farmer an' that's enough for me. 

There's pumpkins in the furrow an' apples on the bough. 
Rich stores for comin' Winter that has no terrors now. 
Though skies be dark for many, an' the future hid frum view, 
The good Lord loves the farmer an" I guess he'll see us thro'. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



w 



THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN. 

E don't half like the city, 

With all its sounds and sights, 
Its rushin', rattlin' street cars, 

And its bright electric lights. 

Where mammon's mighty temples 

Stand beside the stony ways, 
And the roar of business echoes 

Through all the gloomy days. 

Where people never stop to talk. 

Or loiter as they go, 
And can never spare a minute. 

They always hurry so. 

When the smoke of myriad chimneys 

Dim.s the glor}' of the sun. 
And you never feel the cooling breeze 

When your day of toil is done. 

Where through the livelong da}' and night 

The mob keeps rushin' on, 
Like all were bound for kingdom come, 

And anxious to be gone. 
For man is only mortal, 

And some day he'll have to rest, 
And we hope to hear the Master say, 
" He did his very best/' 
And how can any good be done, 

Is what we'd like to know, 
If people never stop to think, 

They always hurry so ? 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 45 



No, we like the country better, 

Where the 1)irds sing through the day, 

Where the pleasant fountains sparkle, 
Beside each dusty way. 

Where God has written on the earth. 

In language plain and clear, 
The story of creation. 

The hearts of men to cheer. 

You can read it in the dewdrops. 
As the\' sparkle on the leaves; 

In the murmur of the zephyrs, 
And the waving forest trees. 

In the sunshine and the rain-fall ; 

The message of His love. 
And at midnight, in the stars that gleam. 

In silence up above. 

Why, the very joy of livin', 

Will make both heart and brain. 

Throb with new life and vigor, — 
Just make you young again. 

When God made man, he put him 

In a garden rich and fair. 
With birds, and flowers, and fountains. 

And perfume laden air. 

He didn't build a great big hou.se. 
With towers, broad and high. 

And set il on a hill-top. 

Where it almost touched the .sky. 



4C WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



W 



And, somehow, it always seemed to us. 

Fate was more apt to frown. 
Upon the man who dwells within. 

The busy, bustling town. 

We suppose we lack ambition, 

That meteor of the mind. 
That leads men from the paths of peace, 

The bubble, fame, to find. 

So, we take things sort o' calm-like, 

As we loiter by the way; 
And we reckon we'll noi regret it. 

When we reach the judgment day. 

For we know we'll all stand equal, 

Before the great white throne, 
When the Master Shepherd counts His sheep. 

And comes to claim His own. 

# ?^^ # 

LESSONS TO LEARN. 

HENEVRR the .sky looks cold and gray. 
And even the robins have gone away; 
When the cold north wind begins to blow. 
And .scatter the flakes of falling snow. 
As into the blazing fire I gaze, 
I dream once more of boyhood days. 

When supper was over, then father would say, 

"You've housed the stock, and given "em hay. 

An' plenty of wood piled up to burn ? 

Well, don't forget, you've lessons to learn.'' 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



How hard and long those lessons seemed ; 
As I conned them o'er, I oftimes dreamed 
Of the time to come, when, school days past, 
I should see the great, wide world at last, — 
When no more I'd hear, in that quiet home. 
The well-known words and kindly tone, 
When supper was over, and father would say, 
"You've housed the stock and given 'em hay. 
An' plenty of wood piled up to burn ? 
Now, don't forget, youve lessons to learn." 

Oh, the dreams we dream in our youthful years 
And our hopes, that end in bitter tears, 
As we weave the web and the mystical plan, 
The aim, and the life, and the doom of man. 
I'd give the wisdom the world has taught. 
And all the joys that the years have brought. 
To live again in the self-same way — 

The days when father used to say, 

"You've housed the stock, and given "era hay. 

An' plenty of wood piled up to burn ? 

Well, don't forget, you've lessons to learn." 



48 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



H 



THE POET. 

E toiled from morn 'til close of day, 

With energy gigantic. 
He dressed each merry roundelay, 

In vestures rich, romantic. 

He turned off poems, grave or gay, 

To catch the public eye. 
He lived on one square meal a day, 

But still fame passed by. 

But now in social maze lies seen, 

The critics call him great. 
He writes stuff for a magazine, 

The devil couldn't translate. 

m ^ ^ 
THE EDITOR-MAN. 

Dedicated to the ■ embers ol the West Virginia Kditorial 
Association. — Wheeling Register. 

The following beautiful poem was written by M S Corn well, of 
Romney. in response to a request from the Pre.sident of the Edi- 
torial Association, that he write sotnettiing for tht recent session. 
Mr. Cornwell is in poor health and was unable to attend himself, 
but sent in this tribute to his fellow cratt. and it was read at the 
banquet by the Prtsid-nt, J. Slidell Brown : 



T 



HERE are poets who sing of the spice-laden breeze. 
That waves the green boughs of the orange and pine ; 

Or the wild, lonely beauty of the tropical seas, [shine 

When the night wind is hushed, and the Southern stars 

And some sing of war, and the clashing of arms. 

Resounds through the rythmical roll of their measure ; 

Or, others of love, and its magical ciiarms. 

And the lode-star that gleams in the palace of pleasure. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 49 



Had the goddess of poesy smiled on Ttiy birth, 
Or the music of nature been born in my soul, 

I would fashion my song for the lowly of earth, 
O'er whose sad hearts the seas of adversity roll. 

There are millions who bow to the rich and the great, 
Whom fortune has rocked in her cradle of gold, 

But few to lend comlort, or pity the fate 

Of the desolate ones whom the universe holds. 

When fortune shall frown on their uneven road, 
Or death come to visit their hearth-stone again, 

There is always a .kind word to lighten each load, 
From the friend to the humble, the editor man. 

So. here's to the brave, patient knigths of the pen ; 

I give vou this tribute- -gain-say it, who can , 
In sorrow or joy, the truest of men, 

Is the friend to the humble, the editor-man. 

* # * 

J HE WA y OF THE WORLD. 

ITEIvL, no tale of a warrior brave. 
Who fell 'mid the battle's roar. 
Nor of sailor bold, who breasted the wave, 
Three hundied leagues from shore. 

But only a lay of a country lad, 

Who dwelt by the eastern sea, 
Whose simple heart the winds made glad, 

When they blew o'er the grassy sea. 



50 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



They whispered to him of a sun-bright land, 

At the gates of the golden west, 
Where he, by the might of his brain and hand. 

Should shine as the strongest and best. 

A dark-eyed maiden, his boyhood love. 
Would wait 'til he came again, 
With heart as tender as a mourning dove. 
Through sunshine, storm and rain. 

And they said the things that lovers will say, 
While men and maidens are young ; 

As long as the human heart hath sway. 
As long as the soul hath tongue. 

John Henry Watkins, my hero bold. 

Left his home by the eastern sea, 
And black-eyed Susan, whose story is told, 

Stayed on by the wind-blown lea. 

Alas, for the hope of the human heart, 
And the sorrows that come between, 

She is married now, since they drifted apart. 
And dwells 'mid the pine woods green. 

Six dark haired urchins, of varying size, 

Play 'round their mother's knee, 
At even -tide when the night-winds rise. 

And blow toward the restless sea. 

And John Henry Watkins, who promised so much, 

Alas, he could do no more ; 
In the straggling Village of Deadwood Gulch, 

He clerks in a grocery store. 



A PLEASANT WORD. 

SOMR peo^)le never have a pleasant word handy, or at 
least they deny themselves the luxury of their use. 
Di 1 vou ever take time to think that it is just as 
easy to smile as to frown ? Well, there is as much differ- 
ence between the two acts as between a gloomy day in 
winter and the sunshine in summer, and the influence on 
tnose around you, just as marked. I have two women in 
my mind thai illustrate my meaning. The one was, and 
stil.l i>, postmistress in a little village where I spent some 
montlis, and so I saw her every day. The second time I 
called for mv mail we got acquainted, and the third day 
we were good friends. Were we ever introduced? Oh 
no. But that cheery little woman had learned that I wat 
an invalid, and she had known suff'ering herself, and 
could sympathize with others. She greeted every one 
with a pleasant word and a kindly smile and I never left 
her presence without a more cheerful and contented feel- 
ing. May her days be long in the land. 

The other one of whom I speak kept a hotel, and I 
was one of the unfortunates who dined at her table. If 
she ever smiled, it was long ago, for her forbidden visage 
bore no marks of such relaxation. I used to bolt my 



WHKAT AND CHAFF. 



meals to get away from the house, for in her presence I 
always felt like the air was charged with lightning. 
Perhaps it was brimstone. 1 he Lord deliver me from 
such again. Which one of these would you rather imi- 
tate ? If you have troubles, keep them to yourself, others 
may have greater. Just try how it goes to be cheerful 
and )'ou will feel ten years younger. 

# # # 

BROWN. THE BEACH-COMBER. 

HE wasn't good to look at, and would scarcely pass 
nmster, even in an ordinary crowd, in these latter 
days when I knew him. I made his acquaintance 
as he sat in the door-way of his humble home, smoking 
his pipe in peace, and gazing out upon the broad lagoon 
that stretched away toward the west beneath the rays of 
the setting sun. Beyond, the fore.st trees of the main- 
land were outlined against a sky of molten gold. A 
mournfully monotonous roar of the surf was in our ears, 
and the vesper song of the mocking bird floated out on 
dreamy air. Ilie palm trees cast long shadows about this 
humble abode, and, as the day died out of the sky, the 
queer old hermit opened his lips and his heart, and spake 
to me of the past, and his lonely life upon this lonely 
.shore. 

The story is too long to tell here, but to me his life 
conveyed a lesson never to be forgotten; a story of lost 
opportunities and a woman's love bartered for the red 
wine's glow; of misery and remorse, and, at last, the 
lonely waiting here, in sight and sound of the restless 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



sea, for the end so soon to come. Softly I wrung his 
hand in the gathering gloom, and silently glided across 
the whispering waters. The stars came ont in the tropic 
sky to point my path, and, ever and anon, the marsh 
fowls flew across the milky way, uttering their plaintive, 
mournful cry, like the wail of a spirit in despair. As the 
night-breeze hummed through the cordage of my little 
barque, I thought of the human wreck I had just left 
behind — stranded here by the tides of time in their cease- 
less flow. 

Once again I saw him, or rather the form that had 
held his world-worn soul. Kind friends had gathered to 
pay the last sad rite to the unclaimed dead— unclaimed? 
No, for clasped in his nerveless hand was the portrait of 
a lovely woman, and above him, shown through tears, 
the same face, grown older, and with deeper lines upon 
the cheek and brow. The woman he had loved and lost, 
and made drain the cup of sorrow to its dregs, had for- 
given, as only a woman's heart can forgive, and come to 
him again. But, too late. The shattered derelict had 
drifted out upon that shoreless sea, that men call death. 

# # # 

BE A MAN. 

I READ a short paragraph in a newspaper a few days 
ago, which set me thinking deeply. It was only a 
brief mention of one of those numerous casualities, 
that go to make up the history of a single day in this 
great big country of ours. Only a word, concerning 
an engineman — poor and unknown— who had stood to 



54 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



his post, with white, set face, and met death, to save his 
train. Had that man fought beside the great Napoleon, 
he would have worn the cross of the Legion, and com- 
manded a regiment. But he was a hero, although his 
name can never be known to fame. Ever}' man, in his 
own silent, loneh' struggle of life, may be a hero or a 
coward. And his life work will show which he has been. 
This much — be a man, and bow neither to mouldy preju- 
dice nor narrow opinion. 

# 4^ # 

DREAMS. 

"^T^HE poet has uttered a prayer of thanksgiving for 
i. the blessing of sleep. But who has thanked the 
fates for the gift of dreams? How easy to lay 
aside the cares of our weary lives and slip awav into the 
beauteous valley of dreams. The best and truest inspira- 
tions come to us then, filling our souls with peace and 
joy. In that enchanted world all is pure, and fair, and 
free from sin and strife I recall dreams which .some- 
times make me wonder if the spirit wanders abroad, led 
by unseen hands, to worlds of light. Visions as fair as 
those which cheered St. John upon the lonely isle, and 
their memory lingers to cheer the weary .soul through 
other days. It is good to feel the thrill of life and min- 
gle with our kind; and it is very good to wander in the 
pleasant land of dreams and listen to the listless lapping 
of the tides of time upon the radiant shores of the world 
of the infinite. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 55 



WHAT IVE LEARN BY EXPERIENCE. 

IT does seem like every boy has to learn a lot of things 
by sad experience. At a certain age, he generally be- 
gins to part his hair in the middle, and the increasing- 
height of his collar denotes the bent of his intellect. He 
has been smitten by some fair damsel and time alone can 
cure him, He begins to chafe at parental restraint, and 
yearns for a wide sphere of action. A good antidote is to 
hitch him to a garden plow, and stimulate his actions 
with a good-sized sprout ; as the years go by, the dreams 
fade and the old-time glamour is no more. Many a man, 
with a tinge of silver in his hair, would like to exchange 
his end of the matrimonial yoke lor a grip on that gar- 
den plow, even with the old man and the hickory sprout 
at the other end of the beam. 

But, as gray hairs begin to come, we are apt to grow 
pessimistic. When the mountains don their gorgeous 
autumn mantle, I often am carried back to boyhood days. 
And the man who missed spending his boyhood on a 
farm, missed the best of life. The 'coon hunts by moon- 
light had their charm, but the apple-butter boilings were 
the acme of enjoyment. Did you ever stir apple butter 
by the flickering firelight? Of course, it takes two, and 
the others amuse themselves indoors, as they should. 
And, oh, well, you know the things that youth will feel 
and say, better than I can tell you, And later comes the 
plays and the games, and, mayhap, a pleasant walk in 
the moonlight, with a clinging form beside you. How 
bright the world looked then, and how different now. 
And yet it has not changed, only you and me. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



I like tt) talk to old men. The men who saw the rail- 
road cotne into the country, and who remember the first 
telegraph, and the infancy of steam navigation. I like to 
hear them tell of the times when they lived in log cabins, 
and hunted deer among the mountains, with the old long 
rifles, so deadly in the hands of a woodsman. They wore 
home spun, and rode horse-back to church ; their simple 
wants were supplied by their native soil. They had 
health and contentment, which are better than riches. 
And I sometimes wonder if it were not better to have 
lived then, than in this lightning age. 

# * # 

j:>a y dreams. 

THE strange old ])oet. Robert Burns, once expressed, 
in his (|naint phrase, the thought, that no matter 
how intimate we may become with another fellow 
creature, there are stib some chapters of our lives which 
are kept sacred, as it were, to the memory of the past, 
and which we never open to the gaze of any mortal. 
There is a world of truth conveyed in this. Every man 
or woman has thoughts and feelings which go to make 
up the inner and higher life, and which are never re" 
vealed, even to those who are nearest and dearest by the 
ties of earth. 

The more of a dreamer a man is, the more interest- 
ing to him are his own thoughts; the more he lives 
within himself, and the more real pleasure there is for 
him in life. When the mellow autumn sunlight falls 
upon the hills, lending its weird glamor to every object 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



in the landscape, a thousand fancies are conjured up, by 
magic, as it were, until the heart of the man is carried 
hack to scenes long past, and almost forgotten, away 
from the fierce turmoil and unrest of life. He is better, 
because dreams are never evil. He sees marvellous beau- 
lies in the works of nature, with a poet's eye, he worships 
at nature's shrine, and, deep down in his heart of hearts, 
he hears the voice of nature" s God, soothing his troubled 
soul to rest. 



# # # 



.^ STCDV IN BLACK AXD WHITE. 

A vS a rule, the southern negro is a lazy varmint, and 
i. \ some of his kind are vicious. As a rule, the south- 
ern white man is honest and courageous, and, 
occasionally, he is keen and sagacious in business, as 
well. Ihit there are exceptions, they do say, to all rules, 
and this exception is not a fancy sketch, but a chronicle 
of facts. 

Down where the v^anta Lucia mingles its sluggish 
waters with the salt tide of the Indian River, which is 
no river at all, only a land-locked lagoon that skirts the 
southeasern shore of Florida— not so many years ago, 
were wide acres of public land. Of course that was be- 
fore the locomotive was heard in the land, and long be- 
fore a United States Senator had made the region famous 
by establishing there his winter abode. Of course, in 
those days, it was a week's journey to reach a telegraph 
office, but the broad lauds were there, the fish disported 



58 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



in the sun kissed waters, and the wild orange ripened b}^ 
the woodland ways. And in those halcyon days, when 
all the country was pa.ssed by the peaceful cattle-ranger, 
a sturdy African came to make his home not far from 
the Santa Lucia's waters, who came to be known far and 
near, as Nassau Tom. He came from the Bahamas, and 
he brought with him a wife of ebony hue and a drove of 
pickaninnies as black and as noi.sy as the rice bird of the 
wild swamp lands. Of course, he held no title deed to 
the land upon which his palmetto .shock was built, but 
later on the State made good his claim to eighty acres. 
His nearest neighbor was one vSimeon Baxter, alias 
Cracker Sim, a type of a disappearing class. Of course, 
Simeon Baxter, cattle-raiser and southern gentleman, 
looked down in lofty scorn upon a '' Nassau nigger". 
But side by side they have lived for twenty years, and 
their stories are a study for the thoughtfully inclined. 

But why prolong the tale ? Recently I passed through 
a most beautiful orange grove, clean and carefully tended, 
with a mass of fragrant, snowy blossoms. On a ridge of 
high hammock, facing the sea, was a neat cottage, and 
before it were irrigated gardens to delight the eye. 
Whose was it, say you? Nassau Tom's, of course, who 
had wrought all this comfort from the thirsty soil by the 
magic of hard labor. Down the road a little way, I 
passed a log cabin, where was a hungry-looking mob of 
dogs dozing in the sun. Upon the piazza sat a grizzled 
specimen of humanity, smoking a corn-cob pipe, and 
dreaming ihe hours awa3^ Who is he, say you ? Simeon 
Baxter, to be sure, cattle-raiser, aforesaid, who was him- 
self raised on hog and hominy, and craves neither the 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



products nor the customs of other lands. For the way 
of the cow-cracker is pa.ssing stran.s^e and changeth not. 
An exception to the rule, say you? Well, nia\- be; 
but. having seen and heard, I am constrained to believe 
and record. 

^ ^ ^ 



MAJOR ANDERSON, OF SA VANNAH. 

ONCE upon a time I had the honor of meeting ]V(ajor 
Anderson, of Savannah. I do not refer to the 
gentleman who commanded F"ort Sumpter, but 
Major Anderson, of Georgia, sah ; a brother of General 
Anderson, and himself a brave Confederate officer. The 
Major is an old-time southern gentleman, who believes 
in the vSouth, and the destiny of her people, and loves to 
talk of the limes before the war. I .spent a very plea.sant 
afternoon with him, on the breeze-swept veranda of a 
southern hotel, looking out upon the southern sea, and 
listening to his stories of the old and the new South. 

" Afler the war,'' s lid he, "we moved to vSavannah, 
and the old plantation, on the river, was rented to our 
former slaves. Along in June, I concluded to go out to 
the old place and see how the boys were coming on with 
their crops. When I reached the boundary of the plan- 
tation, I never saw a more lorlorn-looking sight. Rank 
weeds towered above the cotton rows, and blackberries 
were ripening in the corntields. Coming along the dusty 
highway was a slouching figure, armed with a fishing- 
pole, bare-footed and bear-headed. As he drew near 1 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



recognized my chief tenant and confidential man of 
affairs. * Hello John,' said I. ' In the name of heavens, 
where are all the niggers, and why ain't yon all at work ? 
You black rascal, do you expect to raise anything this year?' 
' Hi. (lar ! Clar, to goodness, if dat aint Mars Bill. Glad 
to see yo', sho. Laws, sah, yo' lookin' monstrous well. 
'Clar to goodness yo' is. Axin" "bout de boys, sah ? Da's 
a mostous no count set, sah ; but dis am de mos' boun- 
tifullest season dat I eber see. De jack fish a runnin', 
sah, so pow'ful thick dat tree or fo' try to git yo' hook at 
once. An' de 'possums, deed. Mars Bill, I neber seed de 
beat ub dem 'possums. Da jis' eber 3' whar. Drive on, 
Mars Bill ; drive on, an' make yo'self to home, sah. I 
jis' gwine down heah to see 'bout dem triflin' niggahs, 
sah." '" 

The Major flecked the ashes from hi^s cigar and 
added: "The black man is a child of nature. He is 
content with nature's bounty, and care comes not nigh 
him.'' 

^ ^ # 

J DREAM OF BO YHOOD DA YS. 

WHY is it, that the early summer always sets us to 
dreaming of boyhood days? I can't tell, unless 
it is because the advent of the summer brought 
new joys to the country lad. It meant a thousand de- 
lightful rambles by wood and stream, and, best of all, it 
was fishing time. Did you ever spend two hours digging 
for bait under every convenient burdock, and then trudge 
off two or theee miles in the morning svinshine, to the 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



nearest stream? If you didn't, you don't know what 
real happiness means. 

Why, a President of the United States, on his way to 
be inaugurated isn't half as happy as the boy who's going 
fishing. A convenient eddy is found and how eagerly 
you'd unwind that old fishing line and make it fast to 
the pole. And then, the peace, and quietude, and happy 
expectancy, waiting for the fish to bite. Some boys can't 
be contented to sit still and wait but they try first one 
place and then another, and grow cross, and complain, 
and they lose all the good of the sunshine, and the bird's 
songs overhead, and go home disappointed. 

That's just the way with some men. They're never 
contented with their lot, but go from place to place, or 
from one occupation to another, instead of taking root 
in the soil, and gathering about them home, love and 
tried friends, and so they miss the best their is in life, 
and die complaining and disappointed. 

And, by the way, speaking of boys, their pastimes 
and employments, or men, and their foibles, we are re- 
minded to say, that a boy's future can be guaged by 
his early habits, and the boy's habits are largely the re- 
sult of home training. I am seldom on the street at 
night, but when I am, I never fail to see crowds of boys, 
loafing on corners, and frequently, in passing, hear lan- 
guage which these same boys never use at home. I 
wouldn't give much for what all those boys will be worth 
twenty years from now. 

I hate to see a man distrust his neighbors, and every- 
one with whom he comes in contact. I hate to hear a 
man decry human nature, for no matter how much of 



62 WHKAT AND CHAFF. 

bad there is in us, there is mighty apt to be a latent streak 
of kindness somewhere. We never know what friend- 
ship and sympathy mean, in our day of prosperity. But 
when adversity, or sickness, or sorrow comes upon us, 
it is then that we know and feel the strength of human 
kindness. It is then our hearts are lifted up above the 
sordid things of earth, and we are made to feel that much 
in life is better than gold or the applause of men. 

# # # 



THE GIFT OF ORIGINALITY. 

DID you ever see a man who possessed, in a perfect 
degree, the gift of originality ? Who never copied 
expression or mannerism from other men ? Well, 
I think I did once, and I'll tell you something of this 
vara avis, while I think about it. 

He was a native of the sea-girdled Bahamas, and 
had all the easy going bonhommie of the tropics in his 
make-up. His skin was the color of polished ebony, and 
his frame was gigantic. His speech was the jargon of 
the West Indian blacks, but his ideas and expressions 
were original. One sample of his arguments will suffice. 

I had helped to put a mast and centei -board and rig 
a leg-o' -mutton sail in a crazy rowboat, which was there- 
by converted into a tolerable sort of dinky, which would 
make fair speed if you didn't try to come up too close to 
the wind. Well, we hired a young gentleman of color 
to catch bait for us, and, of course, furnished him a boat. 
With all the assurance of a blue-water seaman, he hoisted 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



sail and away, making a bee line for a yawl-rigged yacht 
anchored far out in the lagoon. 

Surely, thought I, the fool sees where he is going. 
But, no ; there' was a crash, as the mast of the dinky 
caught the bowsprit of the yacht, and the rigging of our 
gallant craft went by the board in a jiffy. It was in 
speaking of this incident that my original genius re- 
marked : "Hi! dat fool niggah know no mo' 'bout a 
boat dan a white man do 'bout a mule." 

^ m m 

CHRISTMAS IN THE FAR SOUTH. 

ALMOST by the time this reaches the readers of the 
"Review", Christmas will be here. Millions of 
homes will be filled with rejoicing, as around the 
fireside are gathered loved ones from far and near, re- 
united at this happy season. There lingers in my mem- 
ory no brighter picture than a Christmas Eve of my boy- 
hood days. The flames leaping up the wide chimney, 
and shedding their warmth and light upon a circle of 
happy faces. No costly gifts were there — no anticipation 
of brilliant festivities on the morrow — only contentment, 
and love, and peace. What matter, how storms rage 
without? If the world be robed in a mantle of white, 
the comfort within only seems the greater. 

How many such pictures may be seen among the 
hills of West Virginia on this Christmas Eve ? Perhaps 
the lad who sits in the glow of the firelight, dreams of 
future years. Of himself, as an actor in the drama of 
life, or of strange lands, that he shall see when home is 



64 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 

left behind. Alas! such thoughts will come to the mind 
of youth, and, in after years, perchance, that same lad, a 
stranger in a strange lands will dream more fondly of his 
childhood home, and, as the bells ring in the joyous 
Christmas tide, his breast will be filled with that name- 
less melancholy, which only the lonely ones of earth 
may know. 

We cannot all give costly gifts to those we love, and 
make them happ}'. But we can, at least, cheer some 
poorer mortal by deed or word of kindness, which will 
make us all the happier for the doing or the saying. 

Last year, I came on Christmas Eve, to a little vil- 
lage in South Florida, where it was my intention to pass 
the remainder of the winter. After dark the population 
of the village assembled to witness the distribution of 
presents, which burdened a bountiful Christmas tree. In 
all that merry crowd I was the only on who felt himself 
a stranger and alone. But they had not even forgotten 
me. The venerable Santa Claus, who presided over the 
exercises of the evening, presented me with a share of 
the good things provided, and welcomed me, in the name 
of the people, to their village. That little present was, 
in itself, of no value, but the words which accompanied 
it were priceless. They made me realize the bond of 
human brotherhood, that reaches from the peasant in his 
hovel, to the king upon his throne— made me feel that, 
though a stranger, I was among friends. It is such little 
acts as these which sustain our faith in himian kind. 

Last Christmas I sat out in the sunshine, and listened 
to the birds singing among the palmettos and live oak 
and ate oranges fresh from the tree. How unlike all that 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 65 

this country is. Only the bright sunshine, and no sing- 
ing birds nor luxuriant vegetation, and yet, somehow, 
this land has a charm all its own. When I look upon 
these towering mountains, and out, across the wide, 
desert plains, I feel the same emotion as when I stood for 
the first time upon the shore of the Atlantic, and saw the 
breakers rolling in across the world, voicing their tale of 
storms and shipwreck all around the earth. A feeling 
that I am alone with God and nature, and I realize the 
vastness of His created universe, and the littleness of 
human endeavor. 

Perhaps, there are some, who will read these words, 
who feel that they have no cause for happiness or re- 
joicing — who, perhaps, are borne down by a load of grief. 
But is there any sorrow great enough to make us forget 
our faith in eternal justice? Let us, who bear grievious 
burdens of poverty, or pain, or bitter disappointments, 
remember that even the shelter of Bethlehem's Inn was 
not vouchsafed to the Virgin Mother and the New-born 
King. Think of the starving children of Erin, and the 
misery of India, Think what others are suffering, and 
your heart will be lifted up in gratitude for the many 
blessings you enjoy. 

El Paso, Texas, Dec. i6, 1897. 



66 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 

DO WN BY SA VAN N AH. 

IN the course of my summer rambles, I often love to 
take a book and steal awa}' to some quiet spot, where 

I can lie upon the green turf and look up to the wav- 
ing trees, and the blue sky above, and revel in the soli- 
tude of nature. And resting thus, I love to moralize 
upon the drama of human existence as I have seen it. 

Down by the olden city of Savannah, is beautiful 
Bonadventure, the city of the dead. No sound of the 
busy world enters this sacred enclosure. Above the 
moss-grown gravestones the green, live oaks wave their 
festooned boughs, and in the early spring-time the yel 
low jessamine and the wild woodbine fling their flaming- 
blossoms down. Amid these quiet shades, on a balmy 
evening, not so long ago, I sat me down to dream away a 
quiet hour, and incidentally glean from the pages of 
Poe, rich food for future thought. As the moments 
glided by, I heard a murmur of voices, and a youth and 
maiden came hand in hand along the sylvan path, and 
seated themselves upon a fallen gravestone, near my 
pleasant retreat. 

A clump of oleanders but partially hid me from 
view, and I sincerely wished that they wei e mindful of 
my presence ; but who was ever mindful of the world 
when wandering in the path this youth and maid were 
treading ? His face glowed with the light of hope and 
strength, for was not all the world before him, to be con 
quered and laid at the feet of her he loved. And in the 
face of this gentle daughter of the South, I saw the mar- 
vel of the soul's awakening. The volume I held slipped 
noiselessly to the ground, for was not here the sweetest 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 67 

form of life before me? Who would dare to disturb their 
golden dream ? The monuments around bore no message 
for them. And hath it not been ever so, since time was 
young ? 

" The living above, and the dead below ". 

All the tragedy, and sorrow, and pathos of life are 
forgotten when love is strong. And who would rob our 
lives of this one fleeting glimpse of joy? 

Softly I stole away, and these two will never know 
that a wandering stranger's silent prayer for their happi- 
ness was ever made. Sadly I wended my way back to 
the streets of the stately old town, to be borne upon the 
ocean wave away from this sunny land of romance. But 
in my heart there was a voice which said, the best of life 
is youth and love. 

# ^ # 

LOVE OF GOLD. 

''T^ HERE is no human passion so potent as the love of 
i. gold. For it men have bartered their honor, their 
country, and all else that humanity holds dear. 
To-day adventurers are madly rushing to the frozen 
North^ — many of them to certain death — in search of 
gold. B}' the time they reach Klondyke, winter will be 
on, and all communication cut off. For eight long 
months the fortune hunters must endure the hardships 
of their icy prison, and the question is, where is the food 
to be obtained to feed the thousands who are rushing 
into the country. There is no truer proposition than 
that this glittering yellow sabstance is the fruitful cause 
of the world's misery. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



TWO LETTERS. 

IN this day of telegraphs and telephones, the business 
of every-day life is carried on with the speed of 

thought. But the advent of these lightning messen- 
gers has not rendered the good, old fashion of letter 
writing obsolete. Our messages of love and friendship 
are put upon paper in the pain's-taking way of old, and 
are seen only by those for whom intended. 

And how such messages of joy or sorrow may 
brighten or darken our lives. I call to mind a day that 
will never be forgotten — a day of perfect sunshine in the 
far south — a day passed in solitude and meditation. Yet 
it is for neither of these things that it is a day to be re- 
membered, but because of two letters which came to me, 
to make the sunshine fairer, and to banish solitude. 

Without emotion, or even curiosity, I opened the first 
one, and began to read. It was written by a lawyer of 
my native State. A man whose name is a synonym for 
honor and integrity ; a high souled christian gentleman 
whom I am proud to call a friend. It was a letter such 
as only a manly man can write — a man whose soul is 
great enough to grasp the things of life and death, to 
love his fellow men. And as I read, again, and yet again, 
I thought, and has my feeble, erring life been such as 
to draw about me such friends as these, and "grapple 
them to my soul with hooks of steel " ? If so, I have not 
lived in vain. That subtle, mysterious bond of human 
sympathy had changed my day of solitude into a day of 
rejoicing. 

The other letter would have delighted the heart of 
an autograph hunter, ior it was written in the quaintly 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 69 



artistic hand, and graced with the signature of James 
Whitcomb Riley, the master singer of our day and gen- 
eration. What claim, say you, had I upon the time of 
him whom men delight to honor? None but my love for 
him and admiration for his greatness, and yet he spoke 
as brother unto brother, this poet, who daily hears a 
world's applause. 

That letter is at once a poem and sermon. I have it 
framed and treasured, and shall keep it as a priceless 
possession. But treasured in my heart are his kindly 
words of hope and encouragement. "Remain firmly 
superior to all trials," he wrote, "keep sound of soul, 
and always hale of faith in all good things. Work, and 
enduringly rejoice in your-work, and utter it ever like a 
jubilant prayer." 

God bless honest, noble "Jim" Riley, whose work 
has power to brighten the merry life of childhood, or 
lend peace to the sorrowing soul of age. He little 
dreamed how much his kindly optimistic letter would 
cheer a lonely heart and brighten a clouded life. May 
the blessing he bestowed return ten-fold to rest upon his 
head in after years. 

# # m 

A SOUTHERN GENTLEWOMAN. 

BIRTH and breeding niay be an accident, but the in- 
fluences thrown around us in our early years, cling 
through life, and their effect is never wholly lost. 
Not long since, I met and conversed with a venerable 
lady, of a type which is only to be found in the South. 



70 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 

The sort which impress you at once with the thought 
that no mean or sordid action has ever soiled their lives. 

In the soft and melodious accents of her land, she 
told me something of her history, of the old days before 
the war, when the families of the slave-holders lived in 
luxury and refinement — the time when the better classes 
did not engage in the eternal struggle for gain. Of the 
dark days that followed — of broken family ties, of want 
and poverty, and, lastly, of brighter days, with children 
and grandchildren around her, and a happy home in the 
new South And, through it all, she has remained the 
same sweet and loving woman that she was, when, forty 
years ago, a southern gentleman won her pure heart and 
gentle hand. 

Verily, nowhere beneath the skies, are women to be 
foimd like unto the daughters of the South. And may 
the daughters of to-day shape their lives by their mothers 
of yesterday. 

# # * 

SOME REFLECTIONS. 

I HAVE often wondered what made the southern 
people so easy-going and good-natured — so smiling 
and polite, and I have come to the conclusion that 
it is just the sunshine. Modern progress has devised a 
thousand different kinds of furnaces and steam heaters, 
and devised electric, and gas, and calcium lights, but 
they can't rob us of the sunshine, nor can they equal it. 
Scientists tell us that in crowded cities, where the sun- 
shine does not penetrate, that microbes breed and thrive. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



They say a man must not kiss his wife, or a young fel- 
low his sweetheart, for fear of microbes. And I say, just 
get out in the sunshine, and the microbes will all take 
their departure. 

I pity the boy that had to grow up in a city, and 
never rode a horse bare-backed, nor had stone-bruises, 
nor stole watermelons. A boy's surplus energies are 
bound to De expended in ijome direction, and in the 
country he'll bark his shins, or, mayhap, get licked oc- 
casionally, but he don't run to cigarettes nor spindle- 
shanks like his cousins in the cit}-. If I had four hun- 
dred boys, I'd want 'em all raised on a farm, and if they 
didn't tie the cats' tails together, or attempt to ride the 
bull calf occasionally', I wouldn't expect much of them 
when they grew up. 

And this brings us to the question of, why do boys 
leave the farm ? Here philosophers step in and tell us 
that " it is a longing for companionship ", or, " because 
home is not made attractive " . I sa}-, it is no such stuff. 
It's because our modern money-getting mania is inher- 
ited by every boy, and he leaves the dear old home be- 
cause he wants to get rich, and if he has been raised to 
habits of industr}-, he'll outstrip the cigarette-puffing 
college chap every time. 

But talk about a farmer boy getting lonesome, that's 
all bosh. Why, I go out in the forest 'most every day, 
and every time I see new beauties. Sometimes I sit 
down on a log, and, if the mosquitos would leave me 
alone, I could sit there half a day. The wind sighs 
dreamily through the tall palmettos and moss-hung live 
oaks, and an old brown thrush will come down close 



72 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



beside me, and half-timidly hunt for sweet-berries among 
the leaves. The gray doves are cooing here and there, 
and all nature seems made for my especial benefit. Or, 
other days, I go out on the river, and, alongside some 
mangrove island, wait for the fish to bite. Perhaps they 
do, and perhaps the}' don't, but what's the difference? 
The old ocean sings its lullaby, the soft southern breezes 
steal across the wide waters, and the sunlight bathes the 
world in glory. The white and gray gulls come in with 
the tide, and float by me, upon the dancing waves, with- 
out apparent fear. Or, occasionally, a long-legged stork 
will wade up close among the mangroves, as though to 
inquire why I tresspassed upon his domain. Learn to 
live close to the heart of nature, and you will find a cure 
for all the ills of body or mind. 

Almost every country has some advantages and some 
disadvantages, and I reckon it's all right. Florida has 
trojDical fruits and fresh vegetables about all the year, 
and plenty of fish, and oysters, and game, and the finest 
climate this side of the New Jerusalem, but she has no 
firesides. When the old man comes in at night, one boy 
may be down in the swamp hunting 'possums, another 
on the river fishing, and the girls gone for a frolic some- 
where, and so the old folks drape their mosquito net 
around them, and lie down to pleasant dreams. 

One of the happiest recollections of any man's life 
who was raised on a northern farm, is of the long winter 
evenings around the fireside. I don't mean a little, old 
dingy stove, but one of those good, old-fashioned, broad 
fire-places that were found in every country home. Sup- 
per over, the family all gathered 'round, and happiness 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



and peace reigned supreme. Perhaps, there is a dreamy 
look in the dear old mother's eyes, as she gazes into the 
glowing embers, and thinks of other days. And at the 
happy, careless laugh of one of the children, she looks up 
suddenly, and the far-away look gives place to a gentle 
smile, as she resumes her knitting and her contempla- 
tion. 

How we all remember those halcyon days that will 
come no more forever. And when we turn from the 
night-mare of this work-aday world, to gaze for a mo- 
ment upon the long-gone past, is it any wonder that a 
tear-drop trickles down the cheek ? But it is not sorrow 
that fills the heart. 

Every one has his troubles, too, just like every 
country has its disadvantages. To-day 1 fell in with an 
old gentleman who lives all alone, in a little garden spot 
among the pine woods, and he brings the choicest vege" 
tables to the village, and has a thriving young orchard of 
fig trees, and, I thought, here is a man who knows and 
cares nothing for the vanities of life and who is con- 
tented and happy. But he, too, had a grievance. The 
irrepressible razor-backs were the bane of his existance* 
They would eat up his young vegetables, and no fence 
will turn them when the}- scent forage. He had rich 
Savannah land that might be made profitable, if it wasn't 
for the expense of fencing. 

And so I turned grimly away, murmuring, "Good 
Lord, is there no contented man still living?" Well, 
Solomon said that it was all vanity and vexation of spirit. 
And as he built the temple, and was a success in the 
mining and lumber business, and was a ship owner, like 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



Mark Hanna besides being King of Israel, and having 
nearly a thousand wives, and more sense than all the 
rest of us, we'll have to take his word for it. 
Hawk's Park, Fla., Dec. 29, 1896. 



m m 



A PLEA. 



WE frequently hear it said of an individual, in tones 
of disparagement, that "he is young". Well, 
what if he is? Is this good and sufficient rea- 
son why he should be ignored in his profession, and 
turned down politically at every opportunity? The 
world's history furnishes abundant proof of the superior 
activity, and, in many cases, superior intelligence of 
young men. 

Rienzi was but a young man when the rhythmic 
melody of his words first awoke responsive echoes in the 
hearts of the Roman populace. Edward, the Black 
Prince, had a young man's blood of fire in his veins, and 
a young man's heart to dare, when the French hosts were 
scattered, as by the breath of a whirlwind, before his 
path, on the bloody field of Azincourt. 

And so all time shall prove. Although age brings 
experience and riper wisdom, yet the enthusiasm and 
restless energy of youth is lacking, and the old man 
bows down before the weight of obstacles which the 
young man would conquer. 

Is discretion lacking ? Not so. The young man of 
intelligence views every action as a step leading toward 
that future of which he has dreamed, while the older 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 75 



man does not feel a like responsibility. Is his mind less 
active? William Cullen Bryant wrote his greatest poem 
ere twenty summers had cast their " flecking shadows on 
his head". Because the passion fire of his young heart 
leaped up in dazzling flames ere its brightness had been 
quenched by the waters of disappointment and despair. 

?4& # # 

JONES' MOTOR. 

THE first time I ever heard of Jones was several years 
ago, when I read in the papers about his ostrich 
farm on Merritt's Island, down at Cape Canaveral. 
Well, I have since learned that the ostriches died, one at 
a time, and when the last one was dead, Jones was some 
ten thousand dollars poorer than when he left the domin- 
ions of King Menelek, of Abyssinia, with his drove of 
ostriches. That was the first fool freak I know of that 
Jones performed, as I know nothing of him prior to that 
time, save that he hailed from England. How^ever, all 
this has nothing to do with ni}- present story, which con- 
cerns Jones' wonderful motor. 

Old Pierre Lorillard, as every one knows, is a mil- 
lionaire tobacco man, but, ])erhaps, some don't know 
that he used to spend the winters down on the east coast 
of Florida. He had all sorts of boats, and among others, 
a big hulk of a house-boat, in which he kept his horses 
and carriages. Two years ago they had a big October 
gale down there, that blew one corner of the Atlantic 
Ocean into the lagoons, and the people called it a tidal 
wave. It blew Lorillard's old house-boat away from its 



76 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 

moorings, and drove it hard and fast aground in the head 
of a blind creek, among the Mangrove Islands, two miles 
from Sm3^rna. 

Now, a big house boat is a good thing to have in the 
water, but it's a mighty unwieldly thing on dry land, 
and, as a gale was not likely to come from the south and 
drive Mr. P. Lorillard's house-boat back to its moorings, 
no one considered it of much value. However, Jones 
wanted to perfect his new motor. It was specially de- 
signed, so he said, to propel water craft, and here was 
his chance. So he purchased theafore said Horse-house 
boat for the extravagant sum of twenty-five dollars, and 
took up his residence thereon. 

Onl}' a few hundred yards of mud separated his huge 
boat from deep water, and so, at low tide, Jones shoveled 
mud, week after week, until he had cut a canal to the 
nearest channel. Then, at high tide, when there was a 
full moon, he floated her out, and behold Admiral Jones 
and his flagship. His next care was to keep the thing 
from getting aground again at the first high tide, and so 
he always anchored in sheltered coves, and never at- 
tempted to move except when there was a dead calm and 
a slack tide. 

Soon is became noised about that Jones was perfect- 
ing his wonderful motor, and would soon be able to man- 
age his unwieldly craft like a to3^ I used to talk with 
him when he came ashore for water or provisions, but I 
never found out anything about the motor except that it 
was an application of some new sort of power, and that it 
was going to revolutionize mechanics. 

One afternoon I dropped slowly down the channel 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



wherein Jones and his boat happened at that time to be 
anchored. I was trying to tempt those wary little red 
and gold pig fish which abound in tropic waters. The 
pool where the big house-boat lay looked inviting, and I 
cast anchor and began to make ready my tackle. Mean- 
while I observed that Jones was constructing a propeller 
for his craft, which closely resembled, on a larger scale, 
the sort of " flutter wheels " I used to build when I was 
a boy. 

The sound of a hammer in the cabin suddenly ceased, 
and the big, burly Englishman stepped out on the after- 
deck and enquired what we expected to catch. "Pig 
fish," said I. " Pig fish ? Well, there is only one place 
hereabouts you'll find "em. You see that oyster bar 
standing out yonder from that Island ? " I saw the oyster 
bar. " Well, drop anchor about fifty feet to the south- 
ward, and there you'll find em." 

On we went, lazily drifting with the tide, until the 
locality he named was reached. I swung tlie anchor 
overboard. There was a splash, about four feet of wet 
rope slipped through my hands, and the anchor fetched 
up on the bottom. Then I knew Jones had lied to get us 
out of his neighborhood, and my companion, an Alla- 
chua cracker, by the name of Rawlings, knew it, too, for 
he stood up in the stern sheets and made some very un- 
complimentary remarks concerning Mr. Jones. 

'• Shall we beat back through the cut, and look the 
ground over again?" said I to Rawlings. Casting his 
eye toward the sun, which floated in a purplish haze just 
above the tops of the palmettos on the mainland, "I've 
got my cows to milk," said Rawlings, "and the old 



78 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 

woman will have supper ready." And shoreward we 
shaped our course. 

As we pulled our boat up on the beach, Rawlings 
looked disgustedly at the three or four lonesome little 
red and gold fish in the bottom of the boat, and tossed 
them into the water. 

"Well,'' said he, " of all the curious cusses I ever 
seen, that there Jones knocks the 'simmon. I'd like to 
see his durned old motor when he makes her mole." 

And so would I. 

# # ^ 

PASTIMES ON THE RIO GRANDE. 

SOME wise philosopher has said that you can judge of 
a people by their amusements. This is true, tak- 
ing them individually but it would be very unfair 
to judge the good people of El Paso by the character of 
some of the places of amusement in the town. For 
years I had heard wild and woolly tales of the wicked- 
ness of this border city, as a place almost without law or 
gospel, where criminals flocked from Mexico to commit 
all manner of depredations and escape across the Rio 
Grande. I have heard people state that it was not safe 
to go out alone after nightfall. 

Well, how the place got such a reputation I cannot 
imagine. For a more orderly town I never saw. There 
are ten or a dozen gambling dens running wide open, of 
course, but I never heard of any brawls, and beside, a 
decent man's business is to stay away. Tiiere are dance 
halls, where the rougher element of the male population 



WHeAT AND CHAFF. 79 



trip the light fantastic with gayly decked Mexican seno- 
ritas, through the stilly night. But there are worse dens 
within the very shadow of the National Capitol than any 
place in El Paso. 

Over in Juarez, there are a great many gambling 
places, which are frequented to some extent by Ameri- 
cans. Then, there are the bull fights, which take place 
annually in our neigboring town. They are brutal and 
degrading, and I must say, that I think most Americans 
are led to attend them by curiosity alone, and few go 
more than once. If you say bull fight to a Mexican, he 
retorts prize fight, and so it's quits. The Governor of 
Chihuahua would not allow Fitzimmons and Maher to 
fight in Juarez, but the Mexican law permits bull fight- 
ing with certain restrictions. But what I started out to 
say wa<, that El Paso is neither better nor worse than 
most other places I have seen, North, South, East, or 
West. 

Since I do not participate in any of the pastimes I 
have named, I am left to my own resources to while away 
the hours Good books are the most charming compan- 
ions, and thus I am brought into intimate relationship) 
with the greatest minds of the past and present. Some- 
times, as I sit in the sunshine, the book drops from my 
hand and, all unconsciously, I slip away into the pleas- 
ant land of dreams. 

Memory plays us many a truant caper, but kindl}' 
nature has so arranged that as our journey lengthens, the 
rough and uneven places are forgotten, and we remember 
only the fountains that sparkled by the wayside, and the 
perfume of the roses that bloomed in the valleys we trod. 



80 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 

Who does not treasure in his memory some lingering 
hand-clasp, some spoken word, or, perchance, only the 
light in a pair of smiling eyes? But there was a new 
birth of the soul, a new awakening to the beauty of the 
universe and the fuUnes-J and richness of life. The sun 
smiled upon a happy world, to you, and your heart 
answered to the merry song of the birds among tlie wav- 
ing trees ; you have tasted the stream that flows from the 
fountain of all earthly joy, and the memory thereof will 
linger even unto the end. 

I have heard the sweet music of feathered choirs in 
green palmetto groves, or the love song of the mocking- 
bird in the stillness of the tropic night. I have heard 
the soft murmur of summer seas, when all the world was 
hushed, and the moonlight lay, a path of silver across 
the quiet waves, and have hearkened to the weird aeolian 
melody of the wind among the mountain pines. I have 
heard great orchestras render the music of the masters, 
now grand and terrible as the voice of a storm-swept sea, 
now soft and sweet as the sigh of the south wind above a 
bed of violets. But in all the earth I have heard nothing 
half so sweet as the silvery laugh of youth when the 
heart is light with love and joy. 

But what am I dreaming ? Am I growing old, or are 
these reveries nature's recompense for a ship-wrecked 
life? A lonely, wandering bachelor may not dream of 
youth and love, for see, a tear-drop splashed upon the 
book before me, and the fire has almost died out. Stir 
the glowing coals until the flames leap high and banish 
gloom. The desert wind is sighing a mournful requiem 
to-night — A requiem for my buried hopes 

El Paso, Texas, Dec. i8, 1897. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



SPRING IN FLORIDA. 

WHAT a big country this is, and what a diversity of 
soil and climate. While the north is in the 
midst of winter, the coasts of the far south are 
just touched by the first breath of spring. The past week 
has been warm, with gentle rains, and early planting has 
begun. When the winds come from across the gulf 
stream, the climate here is delightful. Everything is 
blooming into new life, and the mocking birds are filling 
the air with the music of their songs. 

It is worth a long journey to spend a few hours in 
one of the den'^e hammocks of Florida. The tropical 
verdure is magnificent beyond compare, and every variety 
of the songsters abound. Flaming yellow jessamine vines 
festoon the tall palmettos, and the gray and ghost-like 
Spanish moss waves in the gentle breezes. Along the 
shores of the Hillsborough Lagoon, at this place, is one 
of the most beautiful hammocks to be found in Florida. 
On the shore is a huge shell-mound, from the top of 
which is the finest view I ever beheld. 

One morning I climbed to the top of a tall cedar, 
soon after the sun had come up from its bed beyond the 
mighty Atlantic, and the broad lagoon lay like a sheet of 
molten silver. North, south, and west stretched the wide 
forest, unVjroken by sound of human habitation. There 
is something impressive about the solitude of the wide 
forest that cannot be expressed. I always feel the gran- 
deur and vastness of nature, and the might of the Creator. 

Did you ever wander by the shore of the mighty 
ocean, and listen to its ceaseless roar ? It always speaks 
to me with a voice of majesty and might. Sometimes I 



82 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 

imagine that it tells of bright lands beyond the sunrise, 
where man first saw the light, when time was young. If 
all the secrets of this mighty world of waters could be 
known, how much richer would the human race become? 
Perchance, it might tell of islands and continents, of peo- 
ple and cities, of which modern humanity has no record. 
The story of the lost Atlantis would be known. The mys- 
teries of all the ships that ever sailed and never returned to 
port, of treasures sunk beneath the waves, of pirate crews 
and tropic isles, the haunts of the brave old buccaneers. 

All this, and more, the realm of Neptune might dis- 
close, could we read its ceaseless murmurings, as it rolls 
forever on the sandy shore. But its lessons we may not 
learn; and so its secrets of life and love, of crime and 
death will not be known until such time as the sea shall 
give up its dead, and time shall be no moie. 

Oak Hill,, Fla., Feb. 15, 1897. 

# * # 
7 HE SEASON BEAUTIFUL. 

EVERY man is, according to the degree of his intel- 
lectual development, a lover of the beautiful. No 
matter how absorbed he may become in the race 
for worldly gain, there will, at times, steal in upon his 
senses a just appreciation of the world of beauty around 
him. All unconsciously, perhaps, but surely, none the 
less, he will be lifted up, out of his more sordid, baser 
self, by a contact with the handiwork of Divinity, exem- 
plified in the beauty and joys of nature. 

While the warmth and brightness of the springtime 
awakens new energies, it also awakens loftier aims and 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



ambitions. The bursting buds and growing plants, 
springing from the soil at every step, are emblems of im- 
mortality. And who is not thankful for life and strength 
when he beholds so much beauty in all the world around. 
Petty cares and anxiedes fall from him as a mantle. 

Each season brings its joys, as well as its sorrows, 
but in the early days of summer, the old world puts off 
the somber garb of winter, and is clothed in a witching 
garb of brightness and beauty. Beside each sparkling 
stream, and in every sheltered vale, the music of nature 
rings softer and more alluring than Calypso's siren song, 
or Orpheus' golden lute. Over all, the mellow sunbeams 
fall, aiid their effect is none the less upon the heart of 
man than upon the plants and flowers that grow and 
blossom by the wayside. 

# # # 

FLORIDA— ITS ALLIGATORS AND INDUCE- 
MENTS, WITH REFLECTIONS. 

WHEN a man has traveled in Florida, he is always 
asked: Did you see any alligators? Some peo- 
ple up north have an idea that alligators go 
about down here like a roaring lion, seeking whom they 
may devour. But, the fact is, they generally keep to the 
lakes and ponds, so if you keep to dry land they won't 
hurt you. I saw one this morning about seven feet long. 
He is kept in a pen like a hog, and does not strike me as 
an attractive pet. 

An old gentleman, who has a garden here, tells the 
tallest alligator yarn that I have ever heard, or expect to 



84 WHKAT AND CHAFF. 



hear. He says that one morning he discovered where' one 
had fallen in his garden and sank down several inches in 
the soft earth. His theory is that the "'gator" was 
caught up by a waterspout from Lake Okechobe, and 
carried to this point in a gale. He invited people to come 
and see the place where his visitor alighted, but I .have 
not seen any one who w^ent. 

Florida abounds in game of all kinds. In this sec- 
tion you can find all s. rts of small game, as well as deer, 
bear, and an occasional panther. But give me a rod and 
line, a good boat, and some bait, a^d you can do the 
hunting. As I am known to be an invalid, I won't tell 
the weight of the biggest fish I have caught, but it was 
bigger than any I ever saw come out of the South Branch, 
with the exception of the worthless carp. Any day you 
can catch a nice string of fish of several varieties, any of 
which are excellent. And you can load a boat with oys- 
ters and clams, as well as soft crabs, any time you want 
them. 

People say, what inducement is there for a young 
man to come to Florida? I answer, the inducement of 
having a comfortable home and all the necessaries of life 
without wearing out body and brain in a ceaseless found 
of toil. You can homestead land, or buy it at a low fig- 
ure, and in four year's time have a place worth several 
thousand dollars, besides having made a living off it, 
and being in the enjoyment of all of nature's bounties. 
But you say, " I cannot endure a life like that. It is too 
quiet." That is the fault of the age. The lesult of our 
teachings, and of this era of concentrated wealth and 
plutocratic rule. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 85 



As a result of our system, there comes to the average 
American boy, a dazzling dream of the future. He sees 
in the dim distance a crown of immortal fame, woven by 
the hand of fate to fit his cranium. Even the White 
House looms in the perspective, and he hears the great 
cry of a mighty people, who are hankering after the 
beneficent reflection of his genius. Some day a great 
awakening will come. In the language of the poet, " he 
will hear somethin' drap." 

There are a great many cures for this sort of big 
head, but the best is the one that comes from a near con- 
tact with the rough side of an unfeeling world. Alter a 
few years the laurel crown will have materialized in the 
shape of a battered straw hat, with a hole in the top, 
while a patch of potatoes and a cross e^'ed mule will 
occupy the place in his mental vision where he formerly 
beheld the arena of wealth and politics. 

Sometimes a young man becomes so thoroughly em 
bued with the idea of his own importance, that he is a 
menace to his family, the world at large, and the welfare 
ot his race. He sizes up his own intellect by the growth 
of his feet, taking no account of worldly experience. At 
this period he runs to high collars, stays out late, and 
yearns to throw off all parental restraint. The unhappy 
father of such a son should exercise his authority long 
and hard, and let the aforesaid authority assume the 
shape of a medium-sized two-handed club, or a pair of 
cow-hide boots. 

Oftentimes young men are above the farm. Above 
the old home that sheltered them in infancy . Perchance, 
ashamed of the father who first guided the tottering 



AND WHEAT CHAFF. 



footseps of childhood, and whose heart swelled with love 
and pride at the thought of that baby boy. But all these 
things must be swept away at the bidding of ambition. 
A curse upon the madness of the age and the rottenness 
of our social and political system that has changed men 
into machines, bent upon money getting. 

In the few .short years of my life, I have wandered 
here and there, about this great country, and been, in 
my humble way, an observer of men and things. I have 
dined in the hovels of the poor, and the palaces of the 
rich and mighty ; I have looked upon life in country 
villages, and in the haunts of wealth and fashion. But 
when I count those men and women whom I have seen, 
whose hearts are free from guile, whose friendships are 
priceless jewels, and whose hand clasps are remembered 
through all the years, I think not of stately mansions 
nor crowded cities, but always of the green country and 
the humbler wa ks of life. 

So why will we allow a dream of wealth to lead us 
from the paths of peace and happiness? I had rather be 
followed to the grave by a few sincere friends whose 
lives I had helped to cheer and brighten, than live and 
die with all the pomp and circumstance of wealth, and 
go down to the dust, followed by the curses of ten thou- 
sand half-starved laborers from whom I had stolen a horde 
of gold. You can see such men rollmg in wealth, every- 
where, and followed by cringing sycophants, who are 
moral lepers upon the social body. 

Hawk's Park, Fla, Jan. 14, 1897. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 87 

TEXAS LIFE IN THE EARL Y DA YS 

THK history of Texas is a stranoe, eventful one, and 
is fraught with deeds of daring, around which 
cling the glamor of romance. i he heroism of the 
men who died within the walls of the Alamo, or over- 
threw the army upon the field of Santa Anna upon the 
field of San Jacinto finds scarcely a parallel. The wild 
free life of the plains in the early days, and the story of 
the range and the trail have been told a thousand times 
But, unfortunately, much that passes lor the literature of 
that time, portrays the evil rather than the good. 

The hardy frontiersman, with his scorn of danger and 
hardships, possessed only of such faults as sprang from 
his environments, in the hands of the imaginative writer 
becomes the semi-civilized hero of border romance. His 
tenderness and humanity are lost in the lurid chaos that 
surrounds the painted figure. Even the hero^ who stood 
like a tiger at bay, the last to die when the Alamo fell, 
is remembered rather for the stories that he told than 
because he was the leading spirit in the founding of a 
mighty commonwealth. Crockett was a typical Texan 
of those times. 

"A brave and manly man was he, 

With a kind and tender heart, 
A cyclone couldn't phase him, 

But a child could rend apart, 
Just like the mountain pine that dares 

The storms that sweep along, 
But rocks the winds of summer time. 

And sings a soothing song '' 

But the old times, the old ways, and the picturesque 
frontiersman have disappeared wherever the shriek of the 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



locomotive is heard. Where Pat McCarty and his com- 
patriots have appeared with pick and shovel, the vast 
ranges have been transformed, and towns and villages 
have arisen like magic ; civil law has taken the place of 
border justice, and trials are no longer held under the 
stars, on the open plain, as in the days when they — 

" knew no law but honesty. 

No evidence but facts ; 

When between the verdict and the rope 
There were no other acts." 

Out here, among the arid wastes of the vast region 
that is known as West Texas, civilization was slower to 
make itself felt, and some characters are still to be found 
who remind us of the old time. 

In the village of Langtry, east of here, resides a 
county judge, whose fame is wide, and whose decisions 
aie, in some cases, original, to say the least. His name 
is Ray Bean, and they do say, that he has plenty of 
friends who will see to it, that he remains Judge Bean 
until the end of the chapter. By profession he is a ven- 
dor of spirituous liquors, and his court room is reached 
by passing through the saloon. 

Upon one occasion, a dapper little dude, from some- 
where back east, entered the saloon while the judge was 
trying a case in the back room, and legal proceed- 
ings were temporarily suspended until the judge could 
attend to the wants of his customer. The guileless east- 
erner asked for a five-cent cigar, and tendered a twenty 
dollar bill in payment. Judge Bean dropped the bill in 
his money drawer, and cooly returned to his court room. 
The stranger waited for him to reappear in vain, and, 
finally, entering the presence of the august court, de- 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



manded his change. Refusing to keep quiet, the judge 
held forth as follows : 

"I fine you nineteen dollars and ninety five rents 
for contempt of court, young man, and further advise 
you to take your carcass out of town at the earliest date 
possible or you may get into more trouble." 

The guileless stranger from the east, it is written, 
took his departure. 

Judge Bean frequently takes the wind out of know- 
ing lawyers who come into his court armed with the 
Code of Texas. He will listen patiently to a learned dis- 
course, and then reply : 

"This court is govened entirely and bases all its de- 
cisions upon the law west of the Pecos, and has nothing 
whatever to do with the statutes of Texas." 

What "the law west of the Pecos " may be, or who 
enacted it, this deponent sayeth not. 

Once upon a time, as the story goes, some fool, who 
had grown tired of living, jumped off the Pecos bridge, 
the highest structure of the kind in the world, and, of 
course, met death on the rocks below. The immortal 
judge, whom I have named, acted as coroner and sum- 
moned a jury to inquire into the case. On the body was 
found forty dollars in currency and a six-shooter. The 
judge, acting in his dual capacity, rendered the following 
verdict : 

"We find nothing in the law west of the Pecos, 
whereby a man becomes punishable for suicide, but the 
evidence shows that this man did unlawfully carry a six- 
shooter, for which offense I fine him forty dollars, and 
order him buried at the expense of the county." 
El Paso, Texas, Dec. 2, 1897. 



90 WHEAT AND CHAFF 



AUTUMN. 

THOUSANDS of poets and writers, of every descrip- 
tion, annually pay their tribute to the season of 
spring. But how many poems do we ever see 
dedicated to the golden, gorgeous autumn? There is 
surely more in this season to call forth thought, to appeal 
to the heart and mind, than in any other season of the 
year. The gentle springtime, with its bursting buds, 
and songs of birds, lets loose the fountains of our nature 
which the icy hand of winter has sealed up, and stirs us 
with a new life, with new hope, and new aspirations. It 
is a signal to labor, and all the beauty and poetry of the 
bright sunlight and waving grass is forgotten amid the 
toils and turmoils of our busy lives. But to us, who dwell 
among these glorious, wood-crowned hills, who never 
hear the .strife and din of the busy world without, and 
whose eyes rest, through all the changing seasons, upon 
the mountains which have stood through endless ages, 
the same in their solitary beauty and grandeur, the com- 
ing of autumn tide is a reminder of rest. There is a sor- 
rowful beauty in the fading woods, and even in the pecu- 
liar autumn sunlight, which fascinates the child of 
nature. The "dying of the year" is a symbol of the 
end of our lives, when we shall stand upon the brink of 
the dark river, and look with longing eyes toward that 
season of rest on the farther shore. 



WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



A PERSONAL STATEMENT. 

Published in his c lumn in the " Hampshire Review '' the week of 
his departure for El Paso. 

I HOPE the readers of this column will pardon what 
may seem an entirely personal allusion. It is 

prompted by the matiy kindnesses I have received 
at the hands of the people of ni}' native county. My 
grateful remembrance is l^eyond the power of mere words 
to express. We never understand nor appreciate true 
friendship until we are tried by sickness or adversity. 

I expect to leave in a few days for the southwest, in 
the hope that an arid climate may prove beneficial. If 
I can fare as well there as in Florida, I shall not 
complain, and the climate is more heathtul. I shall en- 
deavor to write a series of letters during the coming 
winter, which I hope will prove of some interest to the 
readers of the " Review ", not because I fancy I am able 
to write interesting letters, but because they will come 
from an hiNtoric land. 

It seems to me tliat none might wish for a belter fate 
than to live and die, here among these green-clad hills, 
with purest of fountains bubbling at their feet, and the 
blue sky Dending above them. Here, where live, and 
love, and labor, the manliest race of men in all God's 
universe. Dear reader, pray that you may never be a 
home" ess and healthless wanderer. I know what it is to 
live for weeks and months, where the voices of the wil- 
derness were the only sounds to greet my ear, but that is 
paradise, compared to the loneliness of a crowd. To see 
all around you, eager, earnest faces, pressing onward in 



92 WHEAT AND CHAFF. 



the race of life, and you an idle looker on. That is a 
bitter loneliness which the hermit does not feel. Lastly, I 
would say, stay by the homeland and the home people. 
^(ake for yourself some interest in this busy world, and 
you will do well. 



INDEX. 

A Christmas Toast, 26 

A Dream of Rest, 13 

A Fragment, 30 

An Invocation, 19 

A Summer Symphony, 29 

December, 35 

From the Valley, 24 

Immortality, 38 

In ]VCemory of Dr. Samuel F. Smith, 28 

In Memory of Eugene Field, 31 

Only a Tramp, 23 

Rhyme of the Seasons, 36 

Sabbath Bells, 20 

Some Day, 14 

Song of the Sea, 34 

Success, 17 

The Blue and the Gray, 31 

The Old Spanish Mission, 16 

The Passing of Thorwald, 21 

The River of Dreams, 15 

The Sea Shore, 25 

Two Toilers, 36 

When the Leaves Begin to Fall, 33 

Where the Rain Drops Fell, 27 

I'm Just a Lazy Feller, . . 42 

Lessons to Learn, 46 

Summer in the South, 43 



The Country aud the Town, 44 

The Editor-Man, 48 

The Good Lord Loves the Farmer, 43 

The Poet, 48 

The Socks the Golfers Wear, 41 

The Way of the World, 49 

A Dream of Boyhood Days, 60 

A Personal Statement, 91 

A Plea, ' . 74 

A Pleasant Word, 51 

A Southern Gentlewoman, 69 

A Study in Black and White, 57 

Autumn, 90 

Be a Man, 58 

Brown, the Beach-Comber, 52 

Christmas in the Far South, 63 

Day Dreams, 56 

Down by Savannah, 66 

Dreams, 54 

Florida — Its i^lligators and Inducements, with Re- 
flections, 83 

Jones' Motor, 75 

Love of Gold, 67 

Major Anderson, of Savannah, 59 

Pastimes on the Rio Grande, -78 

Some Reflections, 70 

Spring in Florida, 81 

Texas Life in the Early Days, 87 

The Gift of Originality, 62 

The Season Beautiful, 82 

Two Letters, 68 

What We Learn by Experience, 55 



jUH 31 ''''^'' 



